Downfall
by Miss.Mil
Summary: The killing of La Grenouille is Jenny's undoing, and Jethro is there for the fallout. Set at the start of season 5, but post "Bury Your Dead." A dark and angsty one shot.


Wind howls around the house, windows shake and lightning echoes off the walls, patched and scabbed with posters. A lone figure sits in the middle of the darkened room, hunched and silent. The mattress springs creak ever so slightly though no sound utters from her lips as she sits, pale and lifeless eyes fixed on a single object in her hand.

Another figure sits behind her, a hand rests on her own, the other closes around the object in her hand. He does not pull it away, but knowingly leaves it there, a reminder to both of what it does for her. It is not him being haunted by his demons tonight. He makes no sound, his mere presence enough to stop her from doing what he knows she has contemplated many times.

Empty bottles lay around them both, remnants of her previous addiction shifting minutely with the weight on the mattress. She moves abruptly and jerks out of his grasp to press the cool metal to her temple. Tears are flowing down her cheeks as she realises what she is about to do. She pulls away from it, only to come crashing back, pressing it harder still into her temple. She needs to feel the pain, needs to know what it is like to live on the edge.

He makes no move to stop her, knowing, but not fully understanding why she won't do it. He watches in silent horror as her eyes flicker, a thousand emotions conveyed in the dull orbs and his gaze moves upward, toward her temple where the circular mark of the barrel is already leaving its scars. He stays utterly still as a resounding click is heard in the room, the weapon is loaded. Lightning flashes through once more and illuminates the grey lines on her young and once pretty face. The light avoids her face, the shadows a reflection of her inner turmoil.

She stands, knocking bottles to the floor, the shattering of glass drowned out by her haunting scream. She hurls the object toward the wall and it goes off with a loud bang. The bullet travels, its trajectory straight and pure. Her world is a place of despair, a chamber in which she still hangs, waiting for her torturer. It is one in which she can not find the exit, wake or find the will to put a blessed end to the torment.

A crack is heard, its pure sound deafened by the raging thunder. The bullet hits the opposite wall, its individual mark lost amongst hundreds like it. She turns and faces him, her arms hanging limply by her sides, thin and pale. He stands up slowing, meeting her halfway and takes her in his arms.

She makes no sound and he moves not. Her tears make small patches of dampness on his bare skin; glistening trails mark his back where her tears fall. He holds her, not daring to move nor break the trance. Her muscles relax and she falls against him, sliding down until she is seated on the floor.

She mumbles a sound and he pauses, straining to hear. "I killed him." Her voice is pained and broken. It hurts him as much as it hurts her, she is too strong to cry so sadly.

"No," he whispers, reassurances meaning little in their context, "You killed that part of you in which he lives,"

She sees it then; he would haunt her no more. No more would she see his looming face, a deathly grimace that lurks in the corners of her mind.

"You're free," he says as he sits down next to her, raising a hand to move strands of hair, matted and tangled, from her face.

"No," she whispers, her eyes large and scared as she frantically looks around the room, searching for any sign of the source of her torment. She pulls her knees close to her chest and rocks on the spot, every inch the image of a mad woman.

He knows he cannot help her as she lunges forward; hands open as she grasps the discarded weapon and he knows it soothes her, a fixation, a life giving object.

She rolls her head, flinching violently away from the cool metal as it touches her temple again, its mark the every reminder or her pandemonium.

"Help…" she whispers, and he knows she cannot continue, his heart clenching painfully as her breath catches in her own throat.

He shuts his eyes and grasps the weapon, curling his fingers around her before she can pull back. He feels the jump in her pulse as her eyebrows come together imperceptibly. He lifts his hand, her own moving with his as he holds the gun to her temple and she turns to look toward him. Thousands of emotions flicker through her eyes and he knows it isn't over yet, her demons still haunt him even though _he_ is long gone.

She looks straight through him for she is still caught in her own world and blind to his. He prays; hopes and wishes that this time will be the final leap, the last time she puts herself through this, and drags him along with her.

He realises he must pull the trigger, make her feel, a dim fading reminder of what she will lose if she goes through with it, the option that always lingers in the dark depths of her mind.

He squeezes her hand, the only kind of comfort he can give her as the barrel presses further into her head. The click of the firing pin is heard as it falls on an empty magazine. She looks up at him with sad, questioning eyes, knowing he would never take what he values so dearly.

Her hand goes limp as he releases his grip, the weapon falling slowly to the floor. She turns into him as they remain seated on the hardwood of her floor. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, the bones sticking painfully out of her shoulder, a reminder of all they have suffered. He squeezes her softly as the storm quietens, lightning fading as the rumble of thunder grows dim.

Tears move down her cheeks and she barely moves, clinging to the lapels of his shirt, knowing it is her lifeline. He holds her close, knowing it is the only kind of comfort he can give without dangerously overstepping the boundaries.


End file.
